


Not Human

by OperaGoose



Series: Old FFNet Fics [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:59:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OperaGoose/pseuds/OperaGoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Agent-Sherlock kidnaps John and tries to give him Stockholm Syndrome fic. Unfinished, but halted in a good place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Human

**Author's Note:**

> Transcribed from FFNet. Written 2010-2011
> 
> We begin, as we sometimes do, with an idea. Then, those ideas grow. Sometimes they come to fruition as something even better than we first dared to conceive. Other times, they twist and deform, becoming looming shadows of their former selves - darker and more poisonous than we thought ourselves capable of creating.  
> I'm not entirely sure how the beginning of this came about. I somehow produced the idea of a possessive Sherlock, working for Mycroft, who kidnaps a world-weary John for a then-undecided reason. The idea took root - with dialogue.  
> (JW: "Why did you kidnap me?"  
> SH: "Because Mycroft told me I couldn't.")  
> But a poor choice of music took the idea from it's black-humour intentions and sent the idea into a black-hole intent on poisoning the psyche.  
> In the following story, we explore the dynamics of three men who are, for differing reasons, "non-human". In the crux of this tale, we have Sherlock and John. Our once-favourite consulting detective is now his brother's ingenue, but in no pleasant way. John Watson, exiled from the army for an injury, is crushed under the weight of his own uselessness. What compels a forced-sociopath to seek out and ultimately conquer a suicidal doctor? A question soon to be answered.  
> Lording over the entire thing is one Mycroft Holmes. With a worlds' superpower at your fingertips, where does one learn the line to stop manipulating people?  
> So, we have three different facets of 'non-humanity'. A man so powerful he is more than mere man. A doctor so broken and downtrod he has become sub-human. And a man so twisted and dark that he no longer resembles humanity at all. But we do not wake one day to find ourselves abhorrent. Each of us is a victim - of circumstance, of coincidence, and mostly the impact of our fellow human beings.  
> I offer you no psychology degrees to back-up my claims. I have no personal experiences of kidnapping or coercion to draw from. Instead, I can only present to you the dark corner of my mind that observes the poisonous effects of the action-reaction that makes up our everyday lives.  
> Will it be factual? No. Will it be realistic? Possibly. Will the characters be OOC? Definitely. But there is a darkness to all of us, a corner of our beings that (in one way or another) feels non-human, and this fanfiction will spend some time wallowing in that cesspool of self-doubt.  
> Many people will find the content disturbing and/or offensive. Neither of these are my intentions, so I will provide clear warning of things that are likely/possible to occur:  
> Suicidal themes and attempts. Kidnapping. Foul language. Homosexuality. Non-consensual and dubious consensual (possibly graphic) sexual encounters. Mental abuse and coercion. Childhood abuse and coercion. Sexual abuse and coercion. Graphic violence. Unresearched and possibly innacurately portrayed insanity. Atheistic opinions (sherlock will dissect and mock the Judeo-Christian religion).  
> If anything else not listed occurs during the writing proccess I will attempt to warn you at the start of the chapter.  
> Dark times lay ahead. Heed the warning and if you still wish to progress, I present to you: Not Human, by the OperaGoose.

Title: **Not Human**   
Category: TV Shows » Sherlock   
Author: OperaGoose   
Language: English, Rating: Rated: M   
Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort   
Published: 10-15-10, Updated: 07-23-11   
Chapters: 15, Words: 24,326 

**Chapter 2: Prologue**

* * *

**And the obsession begins...**

* * *

Prologue

Everyone had an agenda. MI5 Agent Sherlock Holmes had always accepted that as fact. No person performed any action without the intention of gaining some form of advantage. He recognised that sometimes this intention was subconscious. He had spent his adult life holding firmly to this presumption. He didn't like exceptions. But the situation he came upon one dreary afternoon seemed intent to disprove his long-held opinion. 

Case in point: Doctor John Watson. 

Mike Stamford, the bumbling Chief Resident at St Bart's, had strolled into Sherlock's preferred lab room, picking up his coat and frowning curiously at Sherlock as he stripped out of his lab coat. Sherlock chose not to make conversation – at this point he had nothing to gain from the doctor. An unfamiliar and therefore unimportant person entered after Stamford and stopped, looking at Sherlock who had barely even looked up. 

"Uh, sorry – I didn't realise..." The newcomer stammered. 

"That's just Holmes." Stamford dismissed the other man's concerns rather gently. "He's always here. He won't bother you." 

Sherlock listened to their conversation with half an ear as the chemical formula he had mixed began to react with the blood sample he'd brought. Smirking at the results, he pulled his phone from his pocket and frowned in annoyance. "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." He called, dismissing the fact he had just interrupted their discussion of restaurant options. 

"What's wrong with the landline?" Stamford asked dully. 

"I prefer to text." Sherlock retaliated instantly. 

"Uh," the doctor checked his pockets and shook his head, "left it at home today. Sorry." 

"Here." The second man offered, taking a phone out of his jacket pocket and limping a few steps closer into the room to hold it towards Sherlock. "Use mine." 

Immediately, Sherlock grew suspicious. He took the time during the walk over to deduce all he could about the stranger. Tanned face but no tan above the wrist, military stance and haircut – a soldier then, recently been abroad. The hand holding the phone aloft trembled slightly, but judging by the lack of any other indication of nervousness it was probably involuntary. Probably the result of a shoulder injury. He had limped quite severely in the few steps he'd taken about the room, but his stance was perfectly unencumbered – it had to be at least partly psychosomatic. There was a weariness about his expression that told of something deeper than the dark blue bags under his eyes. So, soldier invalided home from war. But which one? 

He took the phone and turned away as he began typing out the text. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" He demanded coldly. 

He nearly missed the man's "Sorry, what?" as he deduced some interesting facts from the mobile itself. Scuff marks around the power connection – predating the discharge from service so the phone couldn't have belonged to the man originally. "Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" He prodded impatiently, closing the phone and turning it over in his hand as he handed it back to the soldier. 

More scratches and marks on the underside of the phone – kept in the same pocket as keys and coins. Careless owner then, by the name of 'Harry Watson' if the engraving was anything to go by. Hm, 'Clara' - three kisses, romantic attachment, expense of the phone indicating wife not girlfriend. Marriage in trouble, that particular model of phone was only six months old and the previous owner had already given it away. 

"Afghanistan." The soldier answered, bewildered. "Sorry, how did you—" 

Only one way to find out what the previous owner was to this man. "Thank you, Watson." He said curtly, turning back to collect his coat. 

"How did you know my name?" 'Watson' demanded, outraged. 

"Engraving." Sherlock answered dismissively, pulling the coat on with careful movements. 

"Oh. It's not mine." The soldier answered awkwardly. "It's my sister's..." Sherlock's hands paused on the scarf, momentarily stumped. 'Harry' was his _sister_? 

"This is Doctor John Watson." Mike Stamford introduced with an air of importance, "We were at Bart's together." _Doctor_ John Watson. An army doctor, then, trained at Bart's. 

Sherlock merely grunted in acknowledgement and swept out of the lab room. As soon as he had signal, he texted Mycroft's PA to bring the car around. It wasn't until he was enclosed within the interior of the black sedan when the information began to process. 

Doctor Watson could have gained nothing from lending Sherlock his phone. Stamford's reason (self-preservation: Sherlock Holmes was well-aware of his gambling habit, even though the man's wife wasn't) didn't apply to the ex-army medic. He scowled – there had to be some reason, some ulterior motive. 

"Helena." He barked the PA's name-of-the-day. "I want a full _dossier_ of Doctor John Watson on my desk by five." 

"Of course, Agent Holmes." She agreed dully. 

People didn't just _do_ things without an agenda. John Watson _would not_ be the exception of his preconceived notions. He refused to let him. 

* * *

**Chapter 3: Chapter One**

* * *

Chapter One

Just beyond the cracked footpath, a school bell rang shrilly through the air. The squeals and laughter of children at play began to taper off as they were slowly filed inside the red-brick building. John flicked water out of his eyes and wondered when it had begun to rain. It made his already-slick purchase on the girl's chest worse. His hands were soaked in blood and he wiped them on his jeans before returning them to their clasped position over the girl's chest. 

30 compressions, two rescue breaths and his lips came away wet and sticky. All he could smell was copper and his shoulder ached sharply as familiar screams rose up from his memory: 

_Watson!_ They would call, in pain or fear or desperation. There were too many and he just couldn't handle everything piling on top of him. He'd thought the young privates were too young – not even in their twenties and dying for Queen and Country. 

He would gladly give his own life to have this girl be eighteen. There was too much blood, too much blood to come from such a little girl. Muffled sirens accompanied the distorted screams and he looked up with unfocussed eyes to see flashing lights that looked almost colourless against the red, red blood on his hands and his clothes and the road and no longer pumping sluggishly from the holes left by the cattle-bar. 

There were the yellow rain jackets of the paramedics and he was being walked away, struggling to get back the little girl with the little green tennis ball still clutched tightly in her hand. She'd been smiling in childish triumph, until she'd looked up at the four-by-four just moments before it had thrown her to the cobblestones. 

There was a dull orange wrapped around his shoulders and muffled voices, unfocussed faces – a voice he hardly recognised as his own muttering: "too young" over and over again in a senseless murmur. Then the faces disappeared as the little girl was reverently laid on a gurney and...but why were they pulling a sheet over her face? 

"Dead." The word snapped through his consciousness. "Five years old." 

Then he was walking, and the rain washed the blood and people's horrified expressions away. Blood on the keys and his walking stick and the light switch but it wasn't his own and it wasn't a soldier's. 

Too much. Couldn't help. Couldn't help the soldiers. Couldn't help the little girl. Couldn't save a life. Useless, useless doctor. 

Crash as the photo frame smashed against the wall, fingers curled in a tight fist but trembling – shaking. "Can't save lives without a steady hand" the hospital had whispered behind his back. He knelt beside the shards, starring at Harry's drunken grin and his own serious expression. Dressed in a uniform. 

Soldier. Army doctor. Invalid. Discharged. Useless. 

Awash in everyone else's blood and then a fire in his shoulder and yes, finally covered in his own blood. Life. A fragile whisper: "Please, God, let me live." 

But their god was cruel and yes, John had his breath and his heartbeat but he didn't have his life. Shards of glass in his hands now – pain, sharp, but he was still so cold. Cold like the nights in the desert – no cloud to seal in the heat, no rain to wash away the blood. Just murky unsanitary water and filth-soaked rags. 

Irrational. Silly wayward thought. God punished the suicidal. But wasn't he already in hell? Radial Artery, so close to the surface. Veins, blue now but with a precise slice of the glass (scalpels lost, buried somewhere under the sand) they emitted red, red blood. 

Small whimper of pain. Dizzy. Cold. Dark. Peace. 

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

Heart monitor. Alive. 

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

Harry sobbing in the chair, his father stern-faced and stoic across the room. Stamford, horrified, in the doorway. And beyond that, a suited man with an umbrella, frowning at him quizzically. 

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

Parched throat. Take a few moments to find voice. "She was too young." 

The-man-with-the-umbrella turns away. 

... 

"Dull." Sherlock muttered, irritated. He kicked at the underside of his desk, frowning at the computer screen as he typed up the last case report. _Suspect ran at prospect of suspicion, Agent Holmes gave chase. Suspect fired two shots, intent to wound but not permanently injure. Agent Holmes fired one shot to the suspect's left kneecap, leaving the suspect unable to continue his escape attempt. Agent Moriaty apprehended the suspect and delivered suspect to custody._ "Dull." Sherlock repeated again, sending the report off to Mycroft's PA ('Anthea' today, or so the 6am memo informed him). 

The familiar tread of finest Italian-leather shoes approached his office and Sherlock sighed in annoyance, turning around so his back was to the door as his brother entered. 

"Evening Mycroft." He greeted as the door opened and closed again. Closed door? That meant Mycroft had a covert operation for him to deal with. Or he was just going to whine about their tenant downstairs. "How is Mister Cameron? Complaining, as usual?" 

"David is still complaining about his latest speech." His elder brother answered flatly. "But that isn't why I'm here." 

"I miss Gordie." Sherlock commented flatly, inspecting his bookcase for the books Anthea had moved around. 

"You hated Gordon." Mycroft reminded him flatly. 

"At least he wasn't so dull. There was always a scandal to repress with him." Sherlock remarked, pulling out a book and replacing it with the one next to it. "What is it, Mycroft? The small-talk is boring me." 

"The _dossier_ you requested for one," pause as Mycroft pulled out his idiotic little notebook, "Doctor John Watson," another pause as he put it away again, "what reasons did you have for ordering it?" 

"Boredom." Sherlock lied flawlessly. "I picked a name at random and decided to waste your precious resources." 

"Sherlock, don't attempt to fool me." Mycroft warned dangerously. Sherlock turned around so his brother could get the full affect of his unimpressed expression. "I've just been to St Bart's," the elder Holmes continued, "where Doctor Watson was admitted an hour ago for attempted suicide." 

It couldn't have been panic that sparked in the back of his mind – that was just absurd. Sherlock was a sociopath, a fact that everyone agreed with, and he couldn't feel for his closest personnel, let alone for a man he had barely met once. Instead, he took the sudden explosion of energy for the only possible thing it could be. "Interesting." He remarked, steepling his fingers beneath his lips. 

Mycroft's eyebrows shot towards his receding hairline. " _Interesting_?" He repeated, shocked. "Why, Sherlock – I don't think I've heard you say that since Irene Adler." 

Sherlock scowled at the reminder and turned his chair back around. "Is there anything else, Mycroft?" 

"I'll be watching, Sherlock." His older brother warned, before turning and leaving. 

"Always." Sherlock muttered darkly, before resting his head on his fingertips. "Suicide." He repeated, testing the word against his previous assessment of Doctor John Watson. 

No, it didn't make any sense. The agenda he had applied to the doctor (and his unguarded mobile-lending) was one of proving his self-importance. John Watson had to have leant Sherlock his mobile by way of proving his technology was superior to that of the agent's own. A twenty-first century "my horse is bigger than your horse" competition that the doctor had insisted on winning. But the attempted suicide shunted that whole notion – a man so self-assured would not act in such a self-deprecating manner. 

Now he would have to re-think all of the data he had gathered about Doctor John Watson and find another conclusion. He smirked – but first, he best gather more information about this suicide attempt. 

He stood and swept his coat on, wrapping his scarf around his neck as he walked past Anthea at her desk, eyes trained on her blackberry. "Send the car around. I'm going to St Bart's." He commanded her. 

"It's waiting at the side entrance, Agent Holmes." She replied flatly, not glancing up. 

"Excellent." Sherlock agreed, tugging on his gloves as he stepped into the elevator. 

* * *

**Chapter 4: Chapter Two**

* * *

The ancient-looking doctor with wiry white hair frowned at the clipboard hanging from John's bed and hummed slightly, tugging at his neatly trimmed white beard. John scowled at the unfamiliar face and demanded: "Who are you?" 

"Doctor Gordon." The elderly man answered in a gruff voice. 

"You're not my doctor." John pointed out, scowling in mistrust. 

"I'm a consultant." The white-haired doctor answered calmly. He moved closer to the bed and gestured at the bandaged wrist. "May I?" He prompted. 

John sighed in irritation and offered his arm to the doctor. He realised too late what the doctor was doing and resisted the urge to yank his arm away. "What? You can't just _unwrap_ my bandages!" 

The doctor's grip was firm, too firm for his age. "You weren't trying to commit suicide." He stated, the gruff voice now replaced with a smooth baritone. 

"Who the hell are you?" John demanded, heart racing. 

"You're a medical man, you wouldn't make a mistake like that. You specifically avoided the artery in your wrist – you weren't trying to kill yourself." The 'doctor' stated flatly. He re-wrapped the bandage with professional precision and stepped back, frowning down at John with a calculating look. "Interesting." He added quietly, before turning and sweeping out of the room. 

Stamford frowned at the doctor as he passed to enter into the room. "Who the bloody hell was that?" John demanded furiously. 

"I've never seen him before." Stamford answered, bewildered. "Why? What did he say?" 

John shook his head, leaning back into the lumpy pillow. "Nothing. Just...you know how it is." He answered vaguely. 

"Yeah," Stamford agreed, "had an appendectomy once." John didn't bother to acknowledge whatever it was Stamford thought he was agreeing to. The ex-army medic merely closed his eyes and thought over the diagnosis the elderly 'doctor' had given. 

He didn't remember clearly, but the old man had a point. He wouldn't have missed the artery if he'd been trying. So what had he been doing? The day before was a hazy blur, and he started to panic whenever he tried to remember what it was he was forgetting. Something had happened, but he couldn't recall what it was. 

"When can I get out of here?" John asked, ignoring the fact he'd just cut through the middle of Stamford's anecdote. 

"Well, as your doctor I think it would be best for you to stay until you talk to a therapist." Stamford said in his best 'professional' voice. 

"I _have_ a therapist," John answered pointedly, scowling, "and a fat lot of good she did. I swear, if she tells me to put this on my blog I can think of one or two places she can shove that clipboard." 

"John, I know it doesn't seem like it, but I'm sure she's genuinely trying to help you." Stamford said awkwardly. 

John snorted in dismissal. "Look, Mike," he began, stressing the doctor's first name, "either you tell me I can go or I'm going AMA. I can't sit in this hospital for another day." 

Stamford sighed. 

... 

Sherlock leant back in his seat, staring at the ceiling as he settled down to think. He needed his ceiling painted again. He'd analysed every flaw in the work and the eggshell colour was soon to drive him to extreme boredom. Sending off an email to 'Hermia' to demand the redecoration, he set his mind back onto much more interesting matters. 

Doctor John Watson. He re-opened the _dossier_ , although he already had the contents memorized. Everything in the government's files depicted a picture of a completely average ex-army medic. PTS, difficulty readjusting to civilian life, trust issues – blah, blah, blah! It was worrying how extremely _inaccurate_ the MI5 archives really were. 

Sitting up properly, he turned to his desktop computer and hacked effortlessly into Mycroft's programs to bring up John's browsing history. A barren 'blog', an email server, a few generic pornography websites, a variety of medical journals and forums – dull! dull! dull! 

He turned the computer off with a frustrated huff and turned his chair back around, glaring at the small cluster of spider webs above his book-case. Strange how there were never any _spiders_ , only their webs... 

"I'll have to rely on my own data, as _usual_." He muttered to himself, steepling his fingers against his lips. 

John Watson _did_ at first appear to be utterly pedestrian. However, his motives (or, as so far apparent _lack of_ ) removed him from the mainstream of everyday people. A military doctor, well conditioned to violence and bloodshed, who cuts himself without the intention of suicide? That sort of self-mutilation usually died out after adolescence. It wasn't attention-seeking, as evidenced by his empty hospital room and insistence on checking out Against Medical Advice. 

So what was John's agenda? He had to _have_ one – people just didn't do things without reason. 

He sighed in annoyance. "I need more data!" 

"Really, Sherlock – this obsession is becoming quite concerning." Mycroft commented from the doorway. 

"What do you want, Mycroft?" He demanded impatiently, not bothering to turn and face his brother. 

"I've come to deliver you a new assignment," Mycroft answered stonily, "since you clearly need occupation." 

"No thank you, I've got something else going on." Sherlock deadpanned, studying the dirt under his index finger and deducing where it came from. 

"Sherlock – you've already exhausted all the government resources in your little project. There's nothing more you can do." Mycroft snapped imperiously. 

"I simply need more data." Sherlock corrected petulantly. "I need to set up a controlled situation in which I can observe his actions to ascertain his motivations." He mused to himself. 

"Sherlock, you _cannot_ kidnap people and detain them simply because they catch your interest!" Mycroft scolded furiously. 

A slow smirk formed on the younger Holmes' face. "Says you." 

... 

John faltered in the doorway, staring at his living room. It was stupid, after all, but he hadn't expected to have to clean up his own mess. The cheap carpet was soaked with blood and the remnants of a photo frame were still strewn on the floor beside the stains. 

With a sigh he closed the door and leant against his cane, closing his eyes. All he really wanted to do was sleep, but the longer he left the mess the harder (emotionally, at least) it would be to clean up. 

It was definitely a Coffee Moment. 

He limped to the kitchen, side-stepping the red patch, and set the kettle onto a boil. Cold water was best for cleaning up blood, but he'd have to Hoover up the glass before he attempted to scrub the carpet. Problem was – he didn't actually _have_ a Hoover. He'd borrowed the landlady's last time, but she'd told him it was a one-off occasion. He could always borrow one from one of his neighbours, but he really didn't want to have to explain _why_ he needed it. 

The moment any of them saw the bandages on his wrists, they'd jump to conclusions about what he had been trying to do. Everyone had thought the same, except for that mysterious white-haired 'Doctor Gordon' who had known just by _looking_ that the assumption was wrong. 

He sighed as the kettle whistled and limped over to the cupboard for the instant coffee. 

No one had even heard of an elderly Doctor Gordon at St Bart's. There _was_ a Doctor Gordon, but she was an OBGYN fresh out of training. None of the other patients had been bothered by the elderly doctor. So who had been impersonating medical personnel just to invade John's personal life? It was disconcerting to say the least, but his paranoia wouldn't help him. 

His left hand shook violently as he tried to measure out his coffee powder. Cursing, he slammed the jar down and leant against the peeling countertop to get his temper under control. His anger wasn't helping anyone. 

He frowned as he heard the squeak of a trainer against the lino, trying to think whether or not he'd _actually_ heard that. His question was answered when he felt a hand over his mouth and a needle sliding into his elbow. 

As the peaceful black on unconsciousness rose up to greet him, he managed to wonder who the hell it was he had pissed off. Then, nothing. 

* * *

**Chapter 5: Chapter Three**

* * *

John had not been kidnapped before, but he had expected something very different from this. 

He woke up feeling groggy and comfortable, with soft cotton sheets underneath him and a thick duvet over the top. When the situation sunk through the haze, he sat up and took in the room. His first impression was of a five-star hotel room - everything exuded luxury (the gilded lamp and polished mahogany furniture, the stylish but ultimately bland interior design) but still felt bereft of human interaction.   
But there was a family portrait on the feature wall, and hotels didn't do that. The longer he stared, the longer he realized that one of the figures was incredibly familiar. There, his younger face still baring the same expression of boredom, was the man from St Bart's Stamford had introduced. 

"What the hell?" He asked aloud, sliding his way closer to the edge of the king-sized bed. 

There was a mechanical beeping, and the double doors across the room swung open. "Oh, good. You're awake." The familiar man commented, striding into the room with a flaring coat. 

"Mister Holmes?" He asked, floundering. 

The tall stranger wrinkled his nose in distaste. "That's what everyone calls Mycroft. 'Sherlock', please." He requested, offering a hand forward. 

John hesitated for a moment, and then went to shake the slender hand. He tugged harshly at the hand, jerking the man off-balance as he swung a fist towards the man's jaw. 

'Sherlock' laughed in delight as he brought a hand up to block the punch. With a complicated twist, he had John's arm twisted to the edge of breaking point behind his back. "I thought this would be interesting, I never expected you to be so entertaining." The man remarked, grinning. 

He released the ex-army medic with a slight shove. John stumbled forward and turned, walking backwards until he was backed into a corner. "It was you then? You kidnapped me?" 

"Well, it wasn't me who did the actual kidnapping, but you are here under my orders." The man explained dismissively. John tensed as he realized - he recognized the voice! 'Doctor Gordon' had initially spoken in a gravelly voice, but halfway through his voice had changed. 

"It was you in the hospital, wasn't it? Doctor Gordon." John accused, glaring. 

The man's eyes arched slightly. "Yes, it was." He replied, sounding surprised. His expression changed to one of annoyance when a mobile chimed. He took out his phone and scowled at it. "What does he want now?" He muttered to himself. He put the phone back in his pocket and fixed John with an apologetic look. "Sorry, I have some unfinished business to take care of. Make yourself comfortable, I'll be back in a few hours." 

Without further explanation, he swept over to the doors. He leant his face towards a fixture in the wall and something beeped before the doors swung open. John was left staring, feeling sick. Retina Scanners! He grunted in annoyance and leant into the wall - he _would_ find a way out. This freak couldn't keep him here! 

... 

Since technically his position with the MI5 didn't officially exist, getting time off consisted of convincing Mycroft to leave him alone. That was not an easy task. 

The two-hour drive back to London was a hassle, but interrupting Mycroft's meeting with Dave was worth it, just to see the latter's spluttering outrage. Sherlock had literally shoved the man's chair aside to glare over the desk at his older brother. 

"What part of 'I've got something else going on' did you misinterpret?" He growled. 

"Excuse me!" Dave shouted, having found his voice, "we're in a meeting." 

"The economic crises aren't going anywhere!" Sherlock snapped back, infuriated. 

"Sherlock, kindly lower your voice." Mycroft answered calmly. "Mister Cameron, we'll adjourn this meeting until this evening." He said pointedly, looking at the other man pointedly. Dave looked annoyed, but left with a tight nod. Mycroft fixed his younger brother with an unimpressed look. "What is it, Sherlock?" 

"I told you I've got other business, why are you so determined to bore me with your country's petty problems?" Sherlock demanded angrily. 

" _My_ country, Sherlock? For goodness sake, you live in this country too." Mycroft retorted, rolling his eyes. 

"I not the one pulling all the strings, Mycroft." The younger brother snapped back. Mycroft arched an eyebrow but said nothing. "Your kennel of agents can deal with the trivial little issues you create for yourself. I'm taking some time for myself." 

Mycroft sighed and fiddled with his umbrella. "I don't know why you're acting so delusional, Sherlock – you'll get bored with him soon enough. Why waste your time with this Doctor Watson?" He asked, wrinkling his nose in distaste. 

"It's better than wasting my time cleaning up your messes." Sherlock answered coldly. "I'll be at the Estate and if you text me again, there _will_ be retribution. Are we clear?" 

"The Estate?" Mycroft demanded, eyes blazing. "I didn't give you permission to—" 

"Are. We. Clear?" Sherlock interrupted, biting off each word. 

Mycroft glared back at him. "Crystal. Send Elektra in on your way out." Mycroft commanded, before turning away. 

Scoffing, Sherlock left without doing anything of the sort. He spent the car-ride back to the Estate attempting to cool his temper. That would give him a couple of days without Mycroft's interference, but it was no lasting solution. 

He wasn't sure why he resented the implication that he would get bored of John so much. He _was_ a psychopath, which meant that he couldn't form relationships with people – it was useless even trying. He put it down as proving Mycroft wrong and pushed the issue from his mind. 

He raced through the manor, lamenting the fact (as he'd often done as a child) that it was so _big._ It would be much easier to get around in a flat. 

He resisted the urge to laugh as he out-manoeuvred John's attempted attack. People rarely appreciated you laughing at them as they tried to incapacitate you. He couldn't keep the grin from his face as he easily put John in a chokehold. "Hello to you too, John." He greeted with a slight laugh. 

He released the doctor, who stumbled into the corner and lowered himself to the floor. "You can't keep me here." He growled out, coughing. 

Sherlock frowned, taking in the room. "Well, as you've obviously discovered in your seven different escape attempts, keeping you here is well within my capabilities." He corrected softly. "Would you like me to realign that dislocated shoulder, John?" He asked, stepping forward. 

John scrambled backwards. "Don't touch me!" He hissed furiously. 

"Don't be ridiculous, John." Sherlock scolded, rolling his eyes. He knelt behind the doctor and made quick work of the offending injury. "It's not my intention to harm you." 

"Why did you kidnap me?" John pleaded, cowering in the corner. 

Sherlock frowned, sorting between the reasons until he found one he could supply the doctor without sending him into a complete hysteria. "Because Mycroft told me I couldn't." He answered calmly. 

John gave a half-strangled sob. "Who the hell is Mycroft?" He demanded. 

"My older brother. If you're lucky, you'll never have to meet him." Sherlock answered calmly. "He'll probably show up here at one stage, though. He doesn't like things out of his control." 

"You can't just take over my life like this!" John cried, glaring coldly at the agent. 

Sherlock shrugged. "I was going to take over your life, anyway." He answered calmly. "I was going to trick you into becoming my flat mate, but this plan is much simpler." 

"Trick me into becoming your flat mate?" John echoed, confused. 

"Oh, yes. I'd already come up with an elaborate back-story before Mycroft intervened." Sherlock answered casually. "I was going to pretend I was a 'consulting detective' with the London police force – Detective Inspector Lestrade owes me a favour after his promotion. It could have been quite fun, actually – Agent Moriarty would have loved posing as my arch enemy." 

"I never would have believed that." John answered defiantly. 

Sherlock shrugged. "I would have made it look very convincing. I'd even got the flat picked out and everything!" He added with a grin. 

He hardened his expression at John's outraged expression, and easily detained the ex-army medic when he attempted another attack. "You can't do this!" John yelled, his face turned against the polished floorboards. 

"I can see you'll need some more time to get used to the time. Not a problem, I'll go have Mrs Hudson prepare you dinner." Sherlock stood up and strode towards the door. "I'd advise you against trying to get out of the window again. I know from experience even if you _do_ manage to open the bullet-proof glass, the drop to the ground will likely break bones." With an attempt at a welcoming smile, he left the room. 

* * *

**Chapter 6: Chapter Four**

* * *

"You'd best just go with it, dear." Was Mrs Hudson's 'advice'. Mrs Hudson was the housekeeper, and had once been the Holmes' nanny. John had pleaded with her – begged her desperately to help him escape. 

She'd given him an amused smile. "I don't think Sherlock would like that too much, Doctor Watson." Was all she had said on the matter, before plying him with tea and beans-on-toast. "I would've had more, but no one's been in the manor for months. The boys stay at Number Ten most of the time." 

John had balked, thinking for a moment – but she couldn't possibly mean Number Ten Downing Street! Only the Prime Minister lived there. He'd shaken off the ridiculous thought as he'd wolfed down the meal. He was going to need his strength up to successfully get out of this place. 

He had hoped to get more information out of Mrs Hudson, but as soon as he was finished eating, she swept out of the room with his dirty dishes. 

He was left sitting at the table, staring awkwardly at the empty seat the housekeeper had occupied. She was obviously going to be of no help to him. He was on his own, but he refused to let that fact stop him. Some deranged man was not going to keep him locked up like some animal! 

Even as he thought it, his own mind rebelled against the idea. Under any other circumstances, he'd feel privileged to stay in a place like this. 

He looked up as the doors opened, submitting the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes into the suite. John considered attacking him for a moment, before dropping the plan with a resigned sigh. He needed to conserve his strength for further escape attempts. 

The brunette man arched an eyebrow and pulled the chair across from John out and sitting with a flare of his coat. "How was your meal?" He asked blandly. 

"Fine." He answered coldly. 

Sherlock hummed and leant his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers against his lips. "Interesting." He commented. He spent a good few moments studying the invalided doctor. After a moment, he looked vexed. "What is your issue with staying here, John?" He asked. 

"You're not serious." John replied, bewildered. 

"Perfectly." The other man answered. "I don't understand why you're so upset. The rooms are perfectly adequate. If this is about the completely pedestrian meal you were provided, Mrs Hudson has already apologized and has assured me she will do better tomorrow. Besides, you ate it with enough enthusiasm." He frowned at the ex-army medic. "The problem?" He prompted. 

John couldn't stop the hysterical giggle that escaped his lips. "You actually don't know! You _psycho_!" 

"I don't find my personality disorder to be particularly relevant in this instance, John." Sherlock replied curtly, his eyes blank. "I asked you for insight, John, and if you would be amiable to—" 

"Amiable?" John echoed, outraged. "You _kidnapped_ me, and you expect me to be _amiable?_ " 

"Well, I don't see any reason why not!" Sherlock snapped back petulantly. 

John laughed. "You actually don't!" 

" _Explain it to me_!" Sherlock cried desperately. 

John froze as he registered the distress in the younger man's demeanour. The silence stretched between them, tense for something John daren't name. "It's wrong." He answered gingerly. 

"Morally." Sherlock deadpanned, all traces of desperation gone from his voice. But not quite from his eyes. 

"Yeah." John confirmed. "People have the right to live their lives the way the want to," he explained, "to the best of their ability." He added quickly at the arch of Sherlock's eyebrows. The brunette stared at him carefully, expecting him to go on. "It's not fair for you to come along and take over my life like this." 

"That is," Sherlock paused, mulling over his considerations, "preposterous." John stared at him, eyes going wide in disbelief. "If you looked at this rationally, you'd be able to see that you weren't 'living the life you want' – which can be attributed to the fact you were invalided home from the war. Why is it wrong then for me to simply move you to a different lifestyle, when neither options are the one you desire?" John opened his mouth to answer, but the other man continued: "This one is more advantageous anyway. You have better facilities and you will be better taken care of than if you lived alone at that flat. Mrs Hudson and I will treat you better than your father and sister ever did." 

John's jaw clenched. "It's not your decision to make." He growled. 

"I think you'll find that it is." Sherlock answered dismissively. He stood and swept towards the door. "Get some sleep." He advised as he leant his face into the retina scanner, "You're no doubt exhausted from today's antics. I will see you later, John." 

... 

Doctor John Watson was stubborn, but Sherlock could tell he would resign himself to Sherlock's whims eventually. It was obvious from the Doctor's attempts to sleep. First, he had insisted on sleeping in the corner, with no attempt to make the hardwood floor more comfortable. Sherlock estimated John spent long enough there for his shoulder to go numb before moving to the longest of the couches. But after an hour of trying to get comfortable, John had sat up and glared at the bed for a few long moments. 

The ex-army medic was now nestled between goose feather pillows and a thick duvet, snoring softly and muttering occasionally in his sleep. If Sherlock hadn't known any better, he would have thought his triumphant smirk felt a little...tender. 

He steepled his fingers as he watched the screen intently. 

He needed John to be at home here. His discomfort was not conducive to a well-balanced experiment. Though it was inevitable he _would_ eventually grow accustomed to being here, the two of them were racing a clock against Sherlock's own short attention span and Mycroft's delayed control issues. But what could he do to hurry the process? 

He had tried being welcoming and reassuring, but it had so far failed to work. The answer, therefore, could not only be psychological. Perhaps, then, he could turn to a chemical option. There were all manner of drugs that could improve John's mood, and therefore his attitude towards the general situation. 

But... He sighed. If John ever found out, it would cause a lot of problems. The doctor's trust in him was tremulous at best, and if he discovered that Sherlock was drugging him, it would be irreparably broken. 

So, perhaps the answer was biological? The body had the potential for enough hormones that he may not need to resort to other chemicals. Endorphins came to mind first. He doubted the doctor would be keen to establish a new exercise regime, particularly if he couldn't see a proper explanation for it (he was quite stubborn!). Chocolate was his second assumption, but plying John with numerous cocoa-products would make the man suspicious. 

The last thought that entered his mind was backed-up by another benefit. Oxytocin could also be advantageous in this situation. Most of the studies on that particular hormone seemed to agree that it decreased fear and encouraged trust between the individuals involved. The latest plan was the one that would serve his purpose to the best outcome. 

He sighed and slipped out of the surveillance room, heading down the familiar corridors of the manor to the rooms where he had spent most of his adolescence. 

After the incident, it had fallen to Mrs Hudson and Mycroft to raise him. While Mrs Hudson did the best she could to nurture the growing psychopath, she was no match for Sherlock, who even then outstripped her IQ by scores. Any attempt at punishment was thwarted, so it came down to Mycroft to discover a solution. 

Thus, he had commissioned the Grounding Suite. The only entry was controlled by a biological scanner (at first, it had been fingerprints, but Sherlock had managed to outwit that within the first few days and Mycroft had been forced to upgrade to retina scanners. Sherlock _had_ eventually figured that out, but he was assured John would not). The windows were the highest grade of bullet-proof glass, and even when Sherlock had managed to manoeuvre the glass out of the frame, the room was situated on the side of the house with no sufficient footholds to allow safe passage to the ground. He'd ended up with a broken collarbone and a shattered tibia when he had attempted to jump. 

John would be perfectly contained in the Grounding Suite until he was comfortable enough with the situation not to desire escape. The trick was getting him settled before Mycroft chose to interfere. 

Hence, the need for dire measures. Sherlock slipped into the Suite, waiting to assure himself that John was still asleep before penetrating the room further. He pulled the curtain tie from the hook and crossed silently to the bed. He worked quickly, securing the doctor's wrists to the wrought-iron bed frame before John had the chance to wake up properly. 

Sherlock pulled the duvet back, noting that the doctor must have been more exhausted than he had anticipated – the sandy-haired man was still asleep, albeit less deeply than he had been before. 

John's cock was half-hard in his pants, an involuntary reaction to whatever it was his unconscious mind was feeding him. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock pulled back the white fabric and clasped a hand around the organ. John woke up as he began to pump, but Sherlock tuned out the panicked cries as irrelevant. He continued to enforce pleasure upon the doctor, ignoring the heat building as the task became more strenuous as John began to fight. It centred in his lower abdomen, but he focused on the task in hand. 

John was beginning to flush, his cock leaking a reluctant dribble precum from the circumcised head. Of course, most men in service were circumcised for hygiene reasons. The previously unexpected observation merely leant itself to the growing list of what made John more interesting. 

The doctor orgasmed with a cry that bordered on a sob. As Sherlock stepped away, the sobbing continued. Using his clean hand, he untied John's hands and left the room before the doctor had time to come to his senses and lose his temper. 

He leant against the doorway after it closed, catching a breath he suddenly realised was heaving. He stared down at himself, frowning at the tent in his trousers. It was irrelevant – his actions tonight were a method of subduing the doctor, nothing more. 

Besides, he was a psychopath. It wasn't like he was actually _attracted_ to John! 

* * *

**Chapter 7: Chapter Five**

* * *

He scrubbed at his skin, irrationally hoping to wash away the sick feeling in his veins. Violated. By his kidnapper and his own treacherous body. The suds came away pink, and he wondered whether he had scrubbed too hard until the stinging in his wrists came to his attention. He groaned in frustration and put down the soap and washcloth. 

The off-white of the bandages were now blood-soaked, no doubt the wound re-opened from the vigorous scrubbing he'd done. He checked in the cupboard under the sink – glad when he found a well-stocked first aid kit. He cleaned the jagged cut and reapplied the bandages, tight enough to block the steady blood flow. 

He stayed sitting on the marble floor, letting the vertigo from blood loss give way to exhaustion. Anxious as he was to go back to sleep (letting his guard down) he couldn't put it off much longer. He decided to clean away the blood in the morning, even if it would be harder once it had dried, and headed back out to the main room. 

He debated the couch once more, before getting back into the bed. He didn't even fool himself into thinking that avoiding the bed would avoid the psycho's advances. He curled in on himself and drifted off to sleep, trying to ignore the stench of sterilized soap, blood, sweat and jism. 

... 

Mrs Hudson was just finishing the bathroom when he woke up and stumbled warily to the bathroom to investigate the noise. She ushered him to the table where a full English breakfast was steaming patiently. 

He dug in with the enthusiasm of the morning after trauma and it wasn't until he was nearly finished when he remembered just what had occurred the night before. Bile rolling in his stomach, he put his head between his legs to prevent himself from hyperventilating. 

When he looked up, Sherlock was sitting calmly on the other side of the table. He vaulted himself backwards, eyes locked on the psycho and wary for any sudden movement. 

Sherlock watched him, his expression calculating. After a moment, he frowned slightly. John would've cracked if the man had the cheek to ask him what he was upset about this time, but the brunette stayed silent. He looked almost...sad. 

John shook the thought away. What the hell had the psychopath got to feel sad about? _He_ was the wronged party here! 

"Do you want another doctor to examine your wrist?" 

John paled. Of all the questions, he had never expected that one. Coming from some people, he would have taken it as an insult to his competence. But for some unknown reason, he could tell the psychopath didn't mean it to be an offence. Maybe it was the scientific eye studying the fresh bandages with concern rather than critique. 

He shook his head, and the blue-grey eyes flicked to the movement instantly. "No." He added awkwardly. 

Sherlock nodded once. He made easy small-talk with Mrs Hudson as she took away the dirty dishes and other cleaning supplies. John could only stare, trying to correlate the cordial man across from him to the monster who had violated him in the early hours of the morning. 

As he watched Sherlock smile and even laugh warmly with the motherly woman, new light seemed to flood his recollection of the night before. He'd woken from hazy dreams to find himself already under the ministrations of his captor. He'd fought as best he could in his restrains and sleepy stupor, begged with everything he had, but the man had continued with single-minded concentration. 

John shifted uncomfortably as his mind tried to re-evaluate the scene – he had always possessed the unfortunate need to see the best in people. It had made his residency at St Barts bearable – seeing all the drug addicts and other unsavoury characters of Central London and seeing the hope for them, no matter how many times he saw them. It had made the war difficult, seeing the mother's sons in the faces of his adversaries. 

It didn't help now. Pointing out to him that the act hadn't appeared to be intended as an attack. Sherlock had been so focused, it was almost as if he hadn't actually heard the doctor's protests, rather than ignoring them. He could've done a lot worse, had even ignored his own arousal in favour of leaving the doctor in peace. 

John swallowed as his mind came to its own peace-keeping conclusion. Sherlock had only been trying to pleasure him in his twisted, psychopathic way. Internally hating himself for the conclusion he couldn't break away from, he looked at his captor still laughing with Mrs Hudson. No matter how hard he tried to force his mind back down the path to come to another, less tolerant conclusion it refused to budge. 

Sherlock looked over and looked visibly surprised at whatever expression he found on the doctor's face. He dismissed the Housekeeper with a friendly word and studied John with an intense expression. 

After a moment, he smiled very softly (almost...tenderly?) and stood. "Have a good day, John." He whispered softly, before striding towards the double doors. 

* * *

**Chapter 8: Chapter Six**

* * *

"Wait." 

The single word, hesitantly and quietly called after him stopped Sherlock in his tracks as soon as he had registered it (almost instantly, if he did say so himself). 

John was still in the bed, breathing heavy. When Sherlock turned to look at him, he was sitting up in the sheets, his face still flushed with the effects of his arousal and orgasm. It was the fourth time Sherlock had given him pleasure, but before this he had never spoken after orgasm had been achieved. 

He arched an eyebrow in question. He had not let a word escape, even as his natural curiosity had piqued (he wanted to ask John what it felt like when he alternated the speed of his strokes, but his sensibility had restrained him). It was important he not say anything – with the repetition of these sexual encounters, anything he said could become Pavlovian to the ex-army medic. 

The doctor's eyes travelled down Sherlock's torso, to the evidence of the agent's bothersome arousal. "Aren't you going to...?" John asked awkwardly, gesturing towards the problem vaguely. 

"No." Sherlock answered shortly. The erection would disappear soon enough and, although the actual time it took was increasing with each of these encounters, it was not a concern. The only motive to the nightly sessions was making John comfortable enough to stay – adding another motive such as his own sexual release would only complicate the matters. 

He thought it best not complicate things when they could easily be simple, though Mycroft and his elaborate web of deception didn't agree with this philosophy. 

John frowned at his answer, confusion and frustration evident in his expression. Of course, the ex-army medic was still looking for a reason for Sherlock's sexual generosity. As soon as he brought his own pleasure into the equation, the doctor would assume that it was some drawn out form of sexual manipulation, and all he was working for would be counteracted by John's own paranoia. 

After an awkward silence and period of eye-contact, John rolled over and attempted to go to sleep. Sherlock frowned at the erection under scrutiny and straightened his shirt, before leaving John's suite. 

Once the problem was highlighted, he was aware of how awkward walking felt. He went to his own suite of bedrooms instead of the Surveillance Room and sat on the bed, settling his laptop on his thighs, a safe distance away from his still erect penis. Hacking effortlessly into his own CCTV system, he checked to locate John. 

He was still in the bed, staring up at the ceiling just inches away from where the camera was located. If Sherlock turned down the resolution a few fractions, it looked as if the doctor was looking back at him. 

His cock throbbed insistently and he glared at it. His arousal was unusually persistent this morning, and he wondered whether he had done something to encourage it by mistake. Frowning in irritation, he went back through the recording until his entrance into the suite at 3:26:12am. 

His on-screen figure crossed to the bed, where John stirred and looked at him. There was a slight eagerness to the doctor's expression Sherlock hadn't previously observed, as his on-screen figure was reaching into the bed-side table for the padded leather restraints he had Zena order. 

Sherlock's erection throbbed at the image of John's desire and he scowled, pausing the footage to take in the smaller details. There had to be something that was increasing his arousal, but there was nothing of significance in the shot. Clenching his fist, he resumed. 

John moved his hands into position, the reluctant expression Sherlock had seen growing over his face. By the time Sherlock had removed the restraints, John's fists were clenched on the wrought-iron poles of the bed-head. 

Sherlock had been pleased, seeing John's acceptance of the situation so openly displayed. He had laid the restraints aside on the table, as a warning that they were still an option if the doctor tried to fight. 

A brief flash of pleasure Sherlock had previously missed crossed over the doctor's face, and it was impassive before the on-screen agent returned his attention to the doctor's erection. Sherlock skipped back to make sure he hadn't missed it, and his erection throbbed almost painfully as he paused on John's once-more-eager expression. 

The MI5 agent had rarely been one to indulge his sexual desires. As he frowned at his still-present erection, he deduced that his awareness and attention to the doctor's sexual satisfaction was highlighting his own neglected needs. In certain studies, masturbation proved to be beneficial to ones health, and it actually _hurt_. 

With a frustrated sigh, he opened his own trousers and rubbed the aroused flesh through his own pants. He played the footage, intent on discovering precisely what had made the need so unbearable this time. 

On-screen John thrust into Sherlock's grip, low moans tumbling from the doctor's most lips. Sherlock wrapped the same fist around his own insistent erection and mimicked the doctor's movements. A startled moan sprung from his lips at the pleasure that came from the simple movement. He repeated the action, eyes locked on the doctor to be able to copy any changes in John's method. 

He orgasmed some time before the doctor did and, after his vision returned, he sat watching the rest of the encounter with his softening cock in his hand. Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, which left Sherlock vexed through the hazy pleasure that followed his orgasm. 

Cleaning away the inconvenient discharge of the masturbation, he laid back against the mattress as he set the CCTV back to live. He watched the doctor sleep until he, too, drifted off, wondering what had changed. 

* * *

**Chapter 9: Chapter Seven**

* * *

**Okay - so, this chapter is a little longer than usual, but it seemed silly to stop any earlier. This chapter specifically contains torture, allusions to spousal abuse and manslaughter.**

**On a brighter note, this chapter is now Beta'd by the amazing janefan13. All previous chapters are undergoing work and should be updated in the near future.**

**Without further ado, I present to you chapter seven:**

* * *

As Sherlock scrubbed fiercely at his blood-stained hands, he reassigned the blame from his manipulative older brother to his unwilling guest. 

Although Mycroft had been the one to assign him to the last case, it had been John's broken "leave me alone" the previous night that had prompted Sherlock to pursue distraction. 

Over the past few days, John's reluctance to accept the night-time pleasures had increased until last night when fifteen minutes' worth of determined ministrations had failed to inspire arousal in the ex-doctor. Sherlock had been suitably affronted, and just as he had been considering other methods, John had released the only three words he had spoken since Sherlock had succumbed to his own orgasm. 

Unprepared for the rejection, Sherlock had released the doctor's limp flesh instantly. 

Sherlock's initial surprise had given way to a blister of fury. The original, completely irrational, feeling of _rejection_ was tossed aside – Sherlock wasn't engaged in a sexual relationship with John. Instead, he concentrated his anger on having his plans counteracted. John needed to be comfortable in his home, and he would not let the doctor's stubbornness trounce his efforts! 

At that point, John had rolled over to put his back to the agent and curled into foetal position, protecting his vulnerable flesh. 

Sherlock had huffed out an angry breath and left the room. Leaving explicit instructions for Mrs Hudson to serve John porridge for breakfast, he had set out immediately for London. 

Mycroft had been awake when he arrived at Number 10, set up in his younger brother's office with a case file and a plate of teacake. The interrogation of 'national importance' was perfect for Sherlock's still churning temper and, with Agent Moriarty in tow, he had headed into the MI5 holding cells. 

Threats and manipulation were always Moriarty's forte—the way that man spoke sometimes gave even Sherlock a shiver of fear. The way the other agent had looked into the suspect's eyes and simply said "your mother" had actually caused the previously sweating man to urinate all over himself. 

It was the simple text message from Mycroft that finally gave permission for the catharsis Sherlock was so desperate for. _Any means necessary_. 

It was bemusing how quickly a man talked when you were stripping away the skin of his abdomen with his own house keys. The man had revealed the kidnapper's identity before Sherlock had even properly gotten started. 

Still agitated, he had demanded the kidnapper's location, digging his nails into the open flesh. That wasn't specific to their instructions, but the way the man had screamed replaced most of Sherlock's temper with electric pleasure. 

Moriarty had given him a mocking smile as they left the suspect writhing on the cell floor. "How's Johnny-boy, Sherlock?" he asked in that cloying voice of his. 

Sherlock had wiped a blood-stained finger over the other agent's latest Westwood, thereby winning their power-play. But his colleague's comment had notched his anger up again, and he had barked at Hermione to send him back to the estate the instant he heard the sound of manicured nails clacking against the keys of a Blackberry. 

He'd headed through the manor to the grounding suite and into the bathroom without a word to the concerned Mrs. Hudson. He stripped off the leather gloves and run ice-cold water over his hands. 

As he scrubbed the sticky red liquid away and watched the bloody water slip down the drain, his visual memory brought up the first time he'd seen such a sight. 

He was seven when his mother died, and had recently accepted the fact that his parents would never take an interest in his games. They lived in the opposite wing of the house, Mycroft's rooms lying somewhere in the interim. One Sunday a month the four Holmes would gather in the large dining hall and share dinner; otherwise Sherlock took his meals in a small sitting room that was part of his nursery quarters. Mycroft would visit him at precisely seven every evening, and would often send Mrs Hudson from the room. 

At the time of Sylvia Holmes' death Mycroft had been an adolescent, at the peculiar age where one believes they know everything and can exist entirely on their own means. In his first year of college, the eldest Holmes brother was already forming the plans that would later guide his way to the head of the British government. Everything he did was strictly organized and intricately planned in advance. 

So when Mycroft had rushed into Sherlock's nursery at 4:36 in the afternoon, it should have been a warning sign. Sherlock, however, who was still in the throes of his delusional childhood optimism, only felt overjoyed by his brother's impromptu visit. His brother's stern composure had been irrelevant to his prepubescent occupations, until Mycroft had clamped a hand over his mouth and carried him from the nursery. 

Sherlock had remembered two occasions before that day when he had been in his parent's wing, and neither of those were pleasant memories. He was naturally suspicious when Mycroft headed towards his parent's private rooms. 

Sherlock was not surprised to learn that his mother's bathroom was equipped with a half-silvered mirror. Mycroft carried him through the bookcase in his father's private study to the room behind the glass. 

Holmes was lowering their mother into the copper bathtub, and she clung limply to the rim of tub, paler even than after her winter in Finland. His father's hands were red, and he was sneering down at his wife coldly. Her lips were moving, her eyes were pleading. 

Mycroft's voice was quiet in his ear, tonelessly repeating the same words in his ears. Dazed, Sherlock had realized it was true. "This sight means nothing to you. You feel nothing about this." 

Sylvia Holmes' heavy lidded eyes grew dazed and slowly closed, his mother slipping below the surface of the dark bathwater. Holmes turned away from his still wife and stepped up to the sink, turning the cold tap on and staring at the water. He looked up, seemingly glaring directly into Mycroft's eyes on the other side of the glass. 

Their father plunged his hands into the water and scrubbed at his hands almost violently. Still held in his brother's arms, Sherlock could see the red water swirling down the drain. 

Blinking, Sherlock realized his present sight was blurring. His eyes burned and wetness slid down his face. Swiping angrily at the effected flesh, he looked up at his own reflection and saw red on his cheeks, intercepting what were unmistakably tear-tracks. 

He caught sight of movement behind him and his eyes flickered to the reflection of John Watson, leaning on the edge of the bathtub. His hands shook and he looked back down at the bloody drain, shame creeping into his turbulent stomach. 

... 

John hadn't known any sexual pleasure at another's hand for far too long. That's the reason he gave himself for the few days he spent willingly (willingly!) submitting to his captor's sexual advances. Well, "advances" was probably the wrong word in that situation. "Advances" implied some sort of desire for reciprocation. 

John had tried his best in those days trying to devise a new way to get out. He'd exhausted every method of breaking out, had dislocated his shoulder three times now and nearly broke several fingers in his attempts. The room was secure, better than his ability anyway. 

He'd spent all day giving Mrs Hudson broken looks, but she hadn't buckled once. "I raised Sherlock, doctor – don't think for a moment that those looks will work on me," she had scolded him. 

He'd been so frustrated, he'd been forced to calm himself down the only effective way he could in his captivity: with a pot of strong tea and a long soak in the decadent bathtub. 

The first time John had gone to bathe, he'd thought for a moment that he'd stepped into a Harry Potter novel. The bath wasn't Olympic sized, but it was built into the ground and there was room enough for even Sherlock to submerge himself comfortably. 

John Watson, so used to the rough conditions of Afghanistan, could appreciate the luxury he was more than willing to accept. So, with tea warm in his stomach, he ran himself a bath. He sunk into the near-scalding water and tried not to think about the fact he hadn't seen Sherlock all day. 

He refused to feel guilty about his actions. He had the right to say no. Whatever depraved reasons his captor had for wanking him off every night, John knew he had to stop lying down and taking it. The previous night had been difficult – Sherlock was so practiced at getting him off. The psychopath's technique was almost perfect and it had taken absolute concentration of the memory of walking in on his grandparents to keep himself from getting hard. 

For a moment after his rejection, Sherlock had looked so _hurt_. John had been tempted for that moment to explain, to tell his captor the reasons why. But the pain had given way to anger, and John had turned himself away from Sherlock and the feelings he inspired. The psychopath had stormed out and hadn't reappeared all day. John was sure the serving of his least favourite breakfast was some form of petty vengeance from the brunet, but the man had failed to appear and gloat. 

Having Sherlock absent for the day made him anxious and, no matter how much his mind protested at the dependency, he felt out-of-sorts without the brunet's presence. 

So when Sherlock had breezed into the bathroom with single-minded determination, John had been indefinitely relieved and a little scared by his own feelings. 

But the brunet hadn't said a word to him – hadn't even looked in his direction. The psychopath had stripped off his leather gloves to reveal hands covered in blood, before scrubbing at the marred skin with an almost violent preoccupation. 

As he'd scrubbed, his expression grew dazed. John wasn't sure who was more unsettled at discovering that the brunet was crying – him, or Sherlock an eternity later when he broke out of his daze. 

The quiet, involuntary hitches of the other man's breath echoed loudly in John's ears. His protective instinct set in and he moved through the water as Sherlock swiped childishly at his own face. The ice-blue eyes in the mirror instantly locked on him and John froze at the myriad of emotions swirling in their depths. 

The moment held for too long, and finally Sherlock dropped his gaze to the basin. His breath, usually so controlled, was broken up by involuntary whimpers and sobs. By the time John was out of the bath and wearing his pants, the psychopath's eyes were glassy and his expression was vacant. The doctor in him recognized the signs of shock and PTSD instantly, while the part of him that maybe sort of began to feel something for his captor ached with sympathy and the desire to comfort. 

He wrapped an arm around the brunet, awkward as it was with the height difference, and coaxed him from the bathroom. He laid the nearly insensate man on the bed and pulled the duvet over him while he went to turn out all the lights and drain the bath. 

When he returned to the bed, he hesitated – was it wise to share the bed with the other man, considering all that was going on? But the look of childish pleading, lit in sharp contrast of the moonlight streaming through the window, destroyed any resolve the doctor had built. 

He slipped beneath the covers, curling the brunet onto his chest as best he could and making what he hoped was soothing noses as he carded a hand through the tangled curls. 

He almost bolted when the cold hand slipped beneath his pants and wrapped around his limp flesh. But Sherlock's pleading chant of "please" broke his heart, and he submitted to the pleasure without resistance. It wasn't about manipulation or anything like that tonight – it was about comfort and the reassurance of the repetitive movements. 

Sherlock's breathing was deep and rhythmic before John had climaxed, but he pulled the brunet's hand from his flesh silently and shifted into a more comfortable position. With his captor's warmth surrounding him and the comfort of another person's heartbeat beside him, he slept. 

His last thoughts were something along the line of "damn the consequences." 

* * *

**Chapter 10: Chapter Eight**

* * *

**Once again, beta'd by the amazing JaneFan13.**

* * *

John didn't know why he expected his captor to still be there when he woke up in the morning, but he couldn't fight the feeling of disappointment at waking up alone. 

He heard vigorous scrubbing from the bathroom and knew Mrs Hudson was at work. He sat to eat at the table laden with breakfast foods, but found his appetite practically non-existent. His mind kept replaying the strange events of the previous day, from the early-morning rejection, through the lonely day and into the disturbing evening. He would talk to his captor about all that when he reappeared in the suite. 

Mrs Hudson left the bathroom half an hour later, frowning when she noticed his still-full plate. "Is something the matter with your food, dear?" She asked, concerned. 

"No, no," he answered, "it's fine. It's all fine." 

Her expression grew sad as she continued to watch him. "Is this about Sherlock, John?" She asked softly. 

The immediate denial froze on his lips as his brain caught up: this could be his chance to get Mrs Hudson's help! "I'm worried," he said quietly, "He came back yesterday covered in blood. I don't feel safe around a psychopath." 

Even as he spoke the word, his medical mind discounted it. Sherlock himself had corrected him – "sociopath", the man had said. But now, John wasn't so sure… 

Pushing the unhelpful thoughts aside, he focused a pleading look on the old housekeeper. She looked agitated, but before she could answer, the doors opened. "Mrs Hudson, you're needed in the foyer," a wheezing Alto called through the gap. Reluctantly, she left, looking over her shoulder at the disappointed doctor. 

John silently cursed - that had almost worked! Damn whoever it was that had interrupted. Sighing out his disappointment, he settled himself in the reading nook with one of the latest medical journals. There was always lunchtime. 

Lunch was delivered by a silent maid, who kept her eyes downcast the entire time. Seeing the completely unfamiliar figure in what he'd had no choice but to accept as his home caused a flood of suspicion and barely restrained panic. She didn't answer his angry demands to identify herself and left quickly. 

He ate hesitantly, paranoid of his food being poisoned. He shook off the irrational worry, telling himself that Mrs Hudson had just been busy with whatever the crisis in the foyer had been. He could wait for dinner for his next attempt at convincing her. 

He settled in the armchair to wait for Sherlock. The man always came to see him, at least once a day - he hadn't appeared that morning, so he would surely arrive sometime soon. 

He drummed his fingers against his knee, glancing at the windows to judge the time. He started pacing when he grew numb from sitting in one place for so long. 

He stopped when his feet started aching, settling into an armchair and watching the door. Worry bubbling in his gut, he glanced back out the darkening window. Where was Sherlock? He'd disappeared yesterday and came home seriously messed up. John was anxious - where was his captor? 

He jumped when the door beeped and swung open. "Sherlock! Where have you been?" He yelled angrily. 

His stomach sank when he saw the maid from lunch pushing in a tray. 

He ate the unusual lavish meal, eying the young woman with suspicion as she stood off to the side and waited for him to finish. She never once lifted her eyes from the floor, but as soon as John had finished and stood, she began to clear away the table. 

He considered sitting up and waiting for Sherlock, but the brunet would wake him up when he came in anyway. Tense, he lay still beneath the sheets until he drifted off into a fitful sleep. 

He woke in the early hours of the morning at the familiar feeling of Sherlock wanking him off. But the sensation was different than it had been previously – his captor was lying beside him beneath the sheets, and John could feel the hardness pressing against his thigh. 

Sherlock was staring into his eyes with an intense but ultimately unreadable expression. The doctor tried to talk, but the brunet's gaze hardened and the rhythm of his ministrations increased, sending burning sparks of pleasure up his spine. Anything he would have said became wordless moans as the heat continued to coil in his stomach. 

He thrashed at the sheets, too hot beneath the thick duvet and heavy-duty Egyptian cotton. His sweat only made things worse, and despite the orgasmic pleasure it was almost like a sleepless night in Afghanistan. That thought was not conducive to his libido and he thrashed again, this time in the attempt to escape. He tried to beg, but his tongue was heavy and couldn't form a word beyond "Sherlock". He struggled, panic building just a fraction slower than his orgasm. 

When he came, it was with a desperate sob. Sherlock remained curled up beside him, fully clothed, for a moment. John turned to him, trying to quell his irrational fears. "Sherlock," he gasped out. 

The brunet stood abruptly and left the room without a word. It was the norm, but John couldn't help but feel spurned. Curling in on himself, he let the panic leave him in sharp gasps and heavy sobs. He had just begun to drift off when the sun penetrated the room. 

Rubbing at his eyes, first in exhaustion and then in frustration as the itchiness refused to quit, he stood and headed into the bathroom. It was utterly pristine, a testament to Mrs Hudson's monumental cleaning skills. He could still remember the bloody handprints and swirls of blood in the marble sink basin, just as vividly as he could recall his captor's utterly broken expression. 

He rushed out into the main room as he heard the beep of the doors. His disappointment and paranoia grew as he saw the same silent maid pushing in a tray of food. She looked surprised to see him and immediately dropped her gaze. John scratched at his stubble, irritated and unsure what to do with his hands. 

Though his rolling stomach protested at eating when it was working on so little sleep, he ate the full English dutifully. As soon as he had stood, the maid cleared his things and left again. Disconcerted, he paced a little. Surely Sherlock had to reappear sometime today. He was bound to be in the house somewhere. 

Telling himself to calm down, and wincing at his tender feet from his hours spent pacing yesterday, he sunk into the armchair at the reading nook and picked up yesterday's medical journal. He tried to concentrate on the article, but his eyes kept straying to the doorway and his thoughts were never far from his absent captor. 

He jumped up, excited, when the door opened, but the squeaking wheels of the food tray set him back in disappointment and agitation. He ate the gourmet sandwiches with little enthusiasm, hardly registering the complex taste that would've been enjoyable with a better mind-set. He was tempted to remain seated until the maid asked him whether he was finished, but he stood and crossed to the couch instead. 

He sat facing the door in determination, drumming his fingers and fidgeting as his irrational panic grew. What if something had happened to Sherlock? His captor could be in trouble, or he could just be watching him and celebrating John's discomfort. But what of Mrs Hudson? Surely she couldn't still be busy with whatever task she had left to deal with yesterday morning. She could be seriously hurt. 

Or Sherlock could have forbidden her from seeing John again, having caught on to his prisoner's latest escape plan. John rocked, sending some blood through his numb buttocks, and continued to watch the door. 

When the opened again, he didn't even bother to let his excitement grow. He watched the maid set up dinner and stand to the side. The anxious churning in his stomach discouraged any appetite he had, but eventually he stood and sat at the table. He managed a few mouthfuls of cottage pie (one of his favourite meals), but spent a good hour pushing the increasingly indistinguishable mess around the fine-china plates. 

He sat back on the couch and continued to watch the door as the maid left, her down-turned expression worried. He dozed off, neck craning uncomfortably against the arm-rest. 

He woke to Sherlock sliding into position behind him, hands already unfastening the doctor's trousers. As the excitement and arousal built, John could feel the unmistakable hardness of his captor's own erection against his lower back. Sherlock's breathing quickened underneath John's moans and whimpers, probably due to John's involuntarily thrusting hips. 

He small whimper from his captor and an explosion of heat against John's back caused the doctor himself to cum, head spinning with the knowledge that he had just gotten his captor off. 

And he liked it. 

Sherlock left as John's breathing began to deepen. In the absence of his captor, John crawled reluctantly into the cold and empty bed. 

For the first time in a while, he woke screaming from nightmares of the war. His voice was hoarse, and the air was muggy with his own sweat and fearful body heat. He kicked off the sheets and lay panting, staring up at the ceiling as the morning light crept across the whorled plaster. 

He stayed like that until the temperature dropped back down to a bearable level. He pulled the sheets back up around himself and rolled over to look at the room. He knew he couldn't spend all day in bed, but he couldn't summon up the motivation to move. Another full English breakfast was laid out on the table, but John didn't care that it was going to be cold. He rolled back over and stared at the cream-coloured wall. 

He was terrified. Mrs Hudson was nowhere to be seen, and Sherlock's only appearances were the twisted sexual encounters that settled uncomfortably in John's memory. There was only the silent maid and her single-minded visits. John was losing it in his head, and his throat felt heavy and tired from lack of use. 

He closed his eyes and drifted into a feverish sleep staring at the dark red that was the back of his eyelids. Images of sand and blood flickered in the front of his mind, cries and gunshots echoing in his ears. He threw his eyes open at the sound of the door, his already accelerated heart beginning to thunder. 

The sound of the lunch tray calmed him down and dredged him back in disappointment. Mrs Hudson always had a friendly greeting as she entered the room, and Sherlock would never be seen doing something as menial as pushing a tray. 

Though his stomach was gurgling and churning, he didn't move. He closed his eyes again and drifted off into another fitful, war-filled dream. 

He tossed and turned, plagued by memories of the war and things that had never happened but scared him anyway. He jolted awake when the maid re-entered, but otherwise didn't move or react in any way. The hunger pains were dull in his stomach and easily ignored. 

The room finally grew dark and the back of his eyelids dimmed to black. His dreams were set in dreary London now, the battlefield alive on the familiar streets, tourists and locals caught in the crossfire. The army was made up on tanned children, already deadly with the foreign weaponry. 

A somehow familiar man leaning on an umbrella glared at him coldly. "When you walk with Sherlock, you see the battlefield. You've already been there, haven't you?" Then John was running, bullets exploding all around him. One sliced through his shoulder and he screamed. 

"John?" A hesitant voice called. 

He threw his eyes open, jerking upright as his eyes sought out the familiar figure of Sherlock Holmes. The brunet was standing beside the bed, looking down at him with something akin to concern in his eyes. 

John sunk his head into his hands, trying to adjust to a reality he couldn't prove was real. For an irrational moment, he thought that the war-drenched streets of London were the true reality, but he shoved the panic aside. He couldn't encourage the insanity that had been building long before Sherlock had got ahold of him. 

"Do..." Sherlock's deep baritone cut through his reverie, "do you want me to leave?" 

"No!" John cried. The answer was immediate, but still rung true. At Sherlock's arched eyebrow, he continued: "please don't leave me." 

The brunet slipped between the sheets beside him, a familiar hand searching for John's limp cock. The doctor was so tempted to refuse. But, afraid Sherlock would leave at the rejection and a little comforted by the familiar sensations, John allowed it to happen. 

He was distracted, trapped inside his own mind. So much so that his orgasm seemed to happen without him. As soon as he was finished, Sherlock moved to leave. 

John reached out and grabbed the brunet's shoulders desperately. "No!" He panted, "Don't leave me." His voice was rough – barely audible – but Sherlock stilled regardless. 

John searched out and found Sherlock's hard cocked and squeezed firmly. He'd stayed a little while after his orgasm the previous night, and maybe if John got him off again he would feel more inclined to stay. 

Sherlock's breathing quickened as John squeezed and stroked the clothed erection. His eyes, the iris almost entirely swallowed by the lust-blown pupils, bored into John. His expression was the same intense, unfathomable one he'd worn many times before and John couldn't help but to wonder what it meant. 

The brunet came with a throaty whimper, and as soon as his breathing came down to a normal level, he shifted to leave. 

John gripped the torso and fastened the slender figure to his chest. "Stay," he mumbled, fighting sleep, "stay with me." 

* * *

**Chapter 11: Chapter Nine**

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**Now beta'd by the amazing janefan13.**

Sherlock had never shared a bed with anyone before. Yet waking up with John burrowed in his chest, snoring softly, was not as uncomfortable as he had expected. In truth, there was a warmth in his chest that he attributed to the ex-army medic's body warmth. It couldn't be an emotional thing. 

He had the strangest urge to stay in bed until John woke, but according to the usual routine that wouldn't be for hours yet and his fingers were already twitching with his impatience. He eased out from underneath John's still-sleeping form and stood. The doctor whimpered slightly, but didn't otherwise react. 

Sherlock left him asleep and headed down towards the kitchen, where Mrs Hudson was already at work making pancakes. The useless fact he hadn't quite managed to delete came to him in the housekeeper's gentle mothering voice: "It takes six trials to make a perfect batch, Sherlock." Shoving the knowledge aside, he cleared his throat. 

Mrs Hudson turned to glare at him, expression furious but eyes concerned. "Lily has informed me that John took _none_ of his meals, yesterday," she began angrily, "What are you playing at, Sherlock? That boy is traumatized enough at is, you don't need to go shattering his comfort like that!" 

"John is hardly a boy, Mrs Hudson," he returned, dismissing all other points. 

Mrs Hudson sighed in frustration and turned back to her pancake batter. "I don't suppose you're hungry this morning?" 

Sherlock took a moment to catalogue the symptoms he constantly ignored. His head was spinning, his abdomen muscles clenched, his limbs felt week and his extremities were rather numb. He sniffed slightly in annoyance. "A little." 

Mrs Hudson turned to him, shocked. After a moment, she remembered she was supposed to be angry at him and frowned. "You can eat with Doctor Watson, then," she suggested curtly. 

Six am sharp was marked by the usual text from Mycroft's assistant. Her name for the day was Ariadne, apparently. He headed back to John's suite, unsurprised to find the doctor asleep. He sat, watching the mute maid set up two serves of pancakes before leaving the room. 

He waited, for at six thirty the doctor would wake up and they could eat. 

... 

Foolishly, John had believed Sherlock would still be in bed when he woke up. He tried to shove aside the impossible idea, but his disappointment was real. Irrational, but real. 

He wasn't ignorant; he knew it was Stockholm's Syndrome causing these feelings. But he doubted all the theoretical knowledge in the world could protect an already emotionally unstable doctor trained to mindlessly obey. His personal desperation to see the best in people didn't help either. Still, the last three days had been nothing but torment. The only sense of security came from the erotic sessions with the man who he was steadily growing attached to. 

"You cannot possibly still be tired," a familiar voice _whined_ from across the room. 

John sat up, startled. He turned wide eyes to the table, involuntarily excited to see the brunet sitting there, watching him impatiently. Breakfast was set up on the table, but neither Mrs Hudson nor the silent maid was present. 

"Hurry up, John. I don't have all day," Sherlock snapped impatiently. 

The doctor didn't quite leap out of bed, but there was urgency to his movements that probably didn't suit the situation. He sat across from his captor, and the brunet immediately pushed a plate of pancakes towards him. "You'd best eat, since you didn't move from the bed yesterday." 

John was annoyed at that. The brunet had obviously been watching him, must have seen what a state he was in, yet he hadn't bothered to interfere in any way. His gut churned, but he forced himself to eat the pancakes, glaring at the maple syrup that dripped into a pool on his plate. A soft clinking of cutlery caught his attention and his head snapped up to see Sherlock eating his own stack of pancakes with the fussy eating skills of nobility. 

His blue-grey eyes rose from his plate, and he arched an eyebrow. Curtly, he demanded, "What are you staring at?" 

"You're eating," John commented, gaping. 

"Brilliant observation, Doctor Watson," Sherlock returned coldly. 

"You never eat!" John protested. 

"Highly impossible. I have to eat sometimes or I would be dead," the brunet pointed out with a scowl, "don't be ridiculous." 

"I've never seen you eat before," the doctor explained, bewildered. 

Sherlock remained unimpressed. "That is a flawed base for your assumptions, Doctor Watson." 

Frustrated by his captor's cold attitude, John snapped, "What the hell is wrong with you?" 

"Nothing," Sherlock bit back icily, "Why do you expect me to act any differently?" 

A leaden feeling began to settle in the doctor's stomach. He floundered, "After last night..." 

"John, please don't tell me that you're so juvenile to read some sort of emotional nonsense from our sexual exploits," his captor commented, narrowing his eyes. 

"It was more than that!" John protested. He wilted under Sherlock's hardening glare, "You _held_ me." 

A flash of guilt crossed the brunet's face, only to be replaced swiftly by a blank mask. "John," he began stiffly, "I am a _sociopath,_ the emotions you're attempting to assign on me are impossible." 

"You're not," John interrupted before Sherlock could go any further, "You're not a sociopath." 

Sherlock's eyebrows arched furiously, and his nostrils flared. "Excuse me?" He demanded angrily. 

"You're not!" John snapped angrily, "I don't know why you think it's easier to believe that you're a sociopath, but you're clearly not." 

"What makes you so sure, John?" Sherlock demanded coldly, "Why is your opinion apparently correct over the brightest minds in Britain?" 

"The brightest minds?" John repeated skeptically, "What, you and your brother?" 

The brunet sniffed sharply. "Well, _Doctor Watson,_ " he spat, curling the name in disdain, "On what do you base your opinion?" 

"Sociopaths aren't supposed to be able to form relationships, right?" John replied. Sherlock inclined his head to indicate his agreement, and John continued, "Mrs Hudson to begin with. You clearly feel a maternal attachment to her." 

"It's more comforting for Mrs Hudson to believe that we share a bond, so I make sure she has enough evidence to make such an erroneous assumption," Sherlock retaliated smoothly. 

"And why would you care about Mrs Hudson's comfort if you didn't feel some sort of attachment to her?" John challenged. 

Sherlock scowled at him and looked away pointedly. 

"And then there's me," John added hesitantly. 

"Oh, _this_ will be enlightening," the brunet remarked sarcastically. 

The doctor lost his bravado. "Fine, whatever it is you apparently don't feel for me, you can't deny your relationship with Mrs Hudson." 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, his jaw clenching. "No, no - go ahead. Tell me about how my lack of abuse and the recent allowance of mutual orgasm means that I feel for you." he mocked stonily, eyes angry. 

The doctor tried to fight down how much Sherlock's callous attitude hurt. He did think that, but it had to be the Stockholm's talking. "You were crying!" John shouted, remembering the scene in the bathroom. His captor went very still, a blank masking falling over his expression. "Something happened and you were crying about it. I don't know what it was, but something made you _feel._ Made you _human!_ " 

In an instant, Sherlock snapped. He threw the table, still laden with breakfast, aside and clenched John's shirt in tight fists. "You know nothing," he growled out, eyes hollow. "You're an idiot if you can assign my actions with emotional meaning. You can live in this fantasy world where this situation came about from an emotional connection to you, but _you are wrong._ " The brunet threw him back into the chair. "Enjoy your breakfast," he added coldly, before sweeping out of the room. 

John was left trembling, staring at the carnage of Sherlock's denial. 

**Chapter 12: Chapter Ten unbetad**

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**Warning: un'betad, graphic and upsetting/disturbing content, short chapter, mean cliffhanger.**

The slick bile in his gut churned with guilt and fury, leaving a sour flavour in his mouth. Jaw aching from being clenched for too long, he tried to unfurl his angry fists but his fingers screamed in protest at being moved from their learnt position. He ached, but he couldn't let go of his anger. 

A hand pumped up and down his reluctant erection, fist tight with concentration and relentless intent. He exhaled sharply from his nostrils, pleasure growing as an uncomfortable, tight heat in his lower abdomen. He kept his eyes closed, refusing to acknowledge what was being done to him. 

As soon as the involuntary pleasure faded, he stood and headed towards the bathroom to wash away the sweat. He stood at the sink as he waited for the bath to fill, fists clenching on the flawless marble. He tried to push the guilt away with sharp stabs of anger, but it remained nagging in the back of his mind. He had upset the psychopath, yes – but he refused to feel bad about it. 

The man had taken him from his life, locked him away and isolated him from the outside world, kept forcing him through unwilling pleasure for his own twisted desires. 

His fury bubbled furiously in his stomach, jaw clenching so hard it sent a spasm of pain all the way into his temples. He lifted his eyes to the glass of the mirror and tried to look for the reasons in his reflection. 

The man looking back at him was incensed: face flushed with angry blood, eyes wide, nostrils flared, brows drawn together with deep lines, muscle twitching in his jaw from the strain. But he didn't look victimized. He didn't look violated or guilty for upsetting his kidnapper. 

He met the brown eyes in the glass, and nearly started at them. They were dark, almost black, with blown pupils – but oh, so lifeless. He stumbled back, staring at the eyes of his reflection. They looked just as dead as the eyes of Private Oaks, shot as he left his tent and caught by surprise at the Afghans in front of him. 

He couldn't see them any more, each second bringing up painful and traumatized memories. He groped for the porcelain vase on the towel bench and held it between clawed hands as he forced it against the glass of the mirror. His reflection glared at him in the hatred he felt as it fractured, multiplying in a distorted fury. 

He slammed the vase again, dislodging a few shards of glass as the porcelain exploded under the impression. The pain was secondary to the fury, and he stepped closer to the sink, lashing out at his repeated image with shaking fists. John Watson glowered back at him until the shards were too small to make out a clear picture. 

His legs gave out at the same time as his anger and he slid down the wall, holding on to the sink for dear life as his slick fingers tried to find purchase. He was left desolate, staring at the blood dripping into the basin. 

How could he have been so callous? Something had clearly upset Sherlock enough to make the emotionally stunted man cry, and he had just thrown it into conversation to make a point! 

Guilt swirled in the turbulent acids of his stomach and he rolled over, lifting his face from the pool of water spreading from the overflowing bathtub. He looked down at the small shards of glass, remembering that he was trying to avoid his guilt. He had to be angry! Where had that angry reflection gone? 

He scrambled onto his knees, trying to find the angry John Watson from moments ago. The already fragile shards split as he tried to pick hem up and he splashed in the rising water as he searched out bigger pieces. A slice of pain up his knee caused him to cry out as it buckled, and he landed face-first in the glass and water. He closed his eyes and prayed - asking anyone who would listen for salvation. 

His head spun and muttered the Lord's Prayer weakly, just as the door was thrown open and a silhouette walked through the suddenly blinding light. 

**Chapter 13: Chapter Eleven unbetad**

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**Warning: un'betad.**

For the first time in a number of sessions, Sherlock remained unaroused as he took John through the usual motions. Maybe it was the hate on John's face, or the sting of insult still lingering twenty hours later. He was usually quite adept about deleting inconsequential things, yet he couldn't get John's voice out of his mind. _"Made you human!_ " 

His stomach clenched and he tightened his grip around the ex-army medic's erection, determined to finish up and get out of here as soon as possible. John orgasmed with a low grunt and Sherlock left the room, cleaning his hand off on a tissue on his way out of the door. 

John was standing in the bathroom as he entered the surveillance room, leaning over the bathroom sink with a furious expression. He sighed and sank into a comfortable armchair to watch over John until he went back to bed. Just as John raised his head to look at himself, the mobile phone sat across the room sprang to life. 

He hit the mute button and headed over to answer John's phone. He didn't bother to check the number, answering it with a friendly-sounding "hello Clara." 

"Hi again, Sherlock. John still not ready to talk to anyone?" She asked, sounding tired. 

"I understand how difficult the rehabilitation process can be on friends and family, Clara, but it's the clinic's policy to cut off contact with the outside world. At least until they're at a stable point in their therapy," Sherlock explained calmly. 

"How is he?" She asked in a small voice. 

"He's doing well," Sherlock answered soothingly, "I'm confident he should be ready to talk to you soon." 

"Still haven't heard from Professor Watson or Harry, then?" Clara asked, her voice laced with sadness and disappointment. 

"Not yet," Sherlock replied honestly. 

"I'm glad he has someone like you to take care of him there, Sherlock," Clara told him, her voice hitching in little sobs. 

"Here we believe that the mentor program is essential to the rehabilitation process. It helps the patient if they can rely on someone who has been through the same thing before," Sherlock answered, glancing at his watch and wondering how long she was going to be talking for. 

She hummed her agreement, "so you've told me. Well, I couldn't stop thinking of him during my shift tonight. So, I thought I'd call once I left the hospital." 

"Any time, Ms Watson, you know the policy." Sherlock told her calmly. After exchanging petty 'goodbyes', she hung up and he put the phone back on the table. He found it a little unusual that his ex-sister-in-law was the only one who had called checking on John's location, but he made note of an obviously sterile family relationship. 

He turned back to the surveillance screens and felt the muscles in his stomach clench into a tight knot. He threw the door open in his sprint to the Grounding Suite, unable to wipe his mind of the image of John kneeling in a puddle swirling with his own blood. He tore out the mainframe of the retina scanner rather than bother with the fuss of waiting for the system to let him in. 

Shouldering the door open, he raced straight through the suite to the en suite, throwing the door open and striding towards the mumbling John. 

"...hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come," he was saying and Sherlock growled as he realised the idiot was _praying_. 

Feet crunching on what remained of the mirror, Sherlock crouched down and started gathering the delirious man into his arms. He tried his best not to let the glass cause any more damage and awkwardly carried John back into the main area of the suite. If he had been any taller, then Sherlock would have found it nigh-on impossible to manage. 

He laid the nearly insensate man on the bed, reminding himself to get Mrs Hudson to change the sheets later. He didn't think the doctor would appreciate sleeping on bloody linens. He knew personally how discomforting it could be. 

"Our father, who art in heaven..." John slurred, eyes trying unsuccessfully to focus on the light above the bed. 

Sherlock picked up one of the bloody arms and inspected the damage. He refused to believe that it was relief that flooded through him at discovering the wounds were mostly superficial. It must be an unusual reaction to the adrenaline rush. 

"Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses," John continued, squirming slightly. 

"Would you _shut up_ , already?" Sherlock snapped impatiently, "your imaginary friend isn't going to help you! _I_ am!" 

"Imaginary?" John repeated deliriously, looking around blearily. 

"Be quiet, John!" Sherlock commanded furiously, standing to bring the First Aid Kit in from the bathroom. He started cleaning up the doctor's arms, throwing his head up with a furious scowl as John started giggling. "What precisely do you find so funny?" 

"You care about me." John giggled again, closing his eyes and looking up at the ceiling. 

"Do not." Sherlock replied curtly. 

"Do so," the doctor answered back, "you're worried about me." 

"I'm worried about you bleeding all over _my_ bathroom!" Sherlock protested. 

"There! You said it!" John pointed out gleefully, "You said the words: 'I'm worried about you'! You _do_ care about me!" 

"You're delirious," Sherlock informed him stonily, carefully wrapping bandages around the doctor's forearms. 

"Maybe a little," John conceded before he drifted off to sleep. 

Sherlock fought the smile off his face as he finished dressing the doctor's wounds, using a frown to replace the inconvenient expression. He sat back and watched John sleep, trying his very best to resist the realisation the doctor was shoving upon him. 

**Chapter 15: Chapter Twelve REVISED AND BETA'D**

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**Hiiiya guys! So, it's been a while, huh? The first half of this chapter is a rework of the original chapter twelve, with some modification to character that Agent!Sherlock deemed completely unacceptable.**

**Now beta'd by the amazing Sgt Wall! I love you too, and I'm only half as good as you are.**

**ONWARDS!**

John was sure of very few things in life. He was sure that Harry's high school friend Justine hadn't been a friend at all. He was sure that Grey's Anatomy (the original, not the cult TV show) was the reason he passed medical school. 

And he was sure that if it hadn't been for Mycroft, he wouldn't be standing in the rain covered in Holmes blood and trying to gather the courage to leave. 

Behind him, seated on the granite stairs at the entrance of the Holmes Manor, sat a broken Sherlock Holmes. "If you choose to stay now, I will never let you go." 

John closed his eyes, trying to shut out his thoughts and _just think, sod it!_

His rmy training had told him that Stockholm Syndrome would make him feel safe in his prison, would make it difficult to leave. No one had ever told him it would make him _want to stay._

"You should," Sherlock whispered, voice hardly carrying over the fall of raindrops. 

John whimpered, clenching bloodied fists. He remembered a little girl, covered in blood. She was so young and she just _wasn't moving._ He remembered Mrs Hudson - her kind smile and the smell of roasting turkey. He remembered Harry's cold sneer and his father's disappointed look. He remembered Sherlock's face, looking up at him in such adoration with pale, dry lips wrapped around his aching cock. He remembered Clara's voice, so timid on the other end of the phone as he bald-face lied. He remembered Sherlock's icy veneer, shoving him into the couch and screaming at him. He remembered Stamford and his puzzled frown. He remembered loneliness and he remembered the smell of Sherlock as he slept on the hard, pale chest. 

"I don't know if I can," John admitted, hating the tears in his eyes. The rain was soaking through his jumper, and he shivered. 

"You can't stand here forever," the deep baritone commented. 

"You can't do this, Sherlock," John pleaded, "you can't make this my decision." 

"I have to." 

John caught the sob in his throat, clutching at the wool of his sodden jumper as he held himself with shaking arms. "Will you love me?" He begged, hoping against all reason that the brunet agent wouldn't hear him. 

"You know I can't promise you that, John," he whispered, voice full of regret. 

The army-doctor sobbed and hung his head and gave the only answer he had left. 

... 

Three days earlier, John had woken at the usual time - 6am sharp. That was the only part of the day that followed routine. In the two days since his breakdown in the bathroom, his captor had been different for some unexplained reason. 

Sherlock rested a hand on his wounded shoulder, fingers tracing the raised mess of scar tissue. "Fruit tray for breakfast today, John," he intoned, apologetic, "Mrs Hudson's worried about your cholesterol." 

"If I survived Afghanistan, I can survive high cholesterol." 

"Perfectly irrational assumption," Sherlock replied, his deep voice amused, "service in the armed forces does not make you invulnerable to ill-health, John." 

He rolled over and looked up at the chiselled face gazing down at him with something he daren't name in the ice-blue eyes. "Morning," he moaned, stretching himself, "did you get _any_ sleep?" 

"It's Thursday," the brunet replied by way of explanation. 

John blinked up at him, surprised at the information, "Is it?" 

Sherlock frowned at him, his usual cold expression tempered by concern. "Yes, John," he answered quietly, "it is." Sherlock tugged at his shoulder and whined, "Up you get, John. Your digestion has grown loud enough to distract me." 

The doctor just shook his head and sat up, sliding out from the soft cotton sheets and headingover to the fruit-laden dining table. He could remember Sherlock hurling it across the room in a fit of rage, but it had beenreplaced overnight three days ago, the brunet's tantrum never mentioned again. Sherlock sat across from him and watched with amused eyes as John picked unhappily through the options, hungry for his greasy Full English. 

The brunet opened his mouth to speak, but a familiar ringtone cut across his planned sentence. John froze because he _recognised that ring._

Sherlock sighed, but didn't even try to hide it as he removed John's own phone from his jacket pocket. "Good morning, Ms Watson," he greeted, his tone warm. 

John couldn't help but feel a spike of joy along with the fury. He had wondered if anyone had even noticed his absence, but apparently sweet little Clara had. Sherlock was looking at him, his face blank. But there was something else hidden deep within the normally hard eyes. Was that...? No. It couldn't be sadness. 

"Yes, Ms Watson, so very sorry to hear about the unsettling nature of your dream, but I have something that will make you feel better." He spoke into the phone. His movements precise but still somehow reluctant, the brunet handed over his mobile phone with a neutral expression, but those sad eyes. 

John held the phone up to his hear, embarrassed by the tears that sprung to life at hearing his sister-in-law's frantic voice, "...happened? Sherlock! What is it?" She was shouting. 

"Clara," he spoke, his throat too tight to manage much else. 

"John!" It was practically screamed, and he held the phone away from his ear long enough for her to stop yelling. She was crying as he returned it. "...was so worried, and Harry couldn't tell me where you were. I was so afraid to ring your phone in case no one answered, and then Sherlock picked up and he told me everything and, oh John! I'm so glad you're doing well," she babbled. 

John dropped the phone to his shoulder, scowling at Sherlock, "What did you tell her?" He demanded. 

"Does it matter?" Sherlock replied, "You'll tell her whatever you like." 

John realigned the phone and his sister-in-law's voice came to him in a desperate stream of nervous chatter. "Clara," he interrupted her monologue. 

"You _are_ okay, aren't you?" She asked, "I mean, Sherlock has been good to you, hasn't he?" 

"Sherlock's been-" his throat closed up and he swallowed as best as he could. "I'm sorry, Clara - I can't do this. I just..." He clenched his free fist, "I'm alright, Clara. I just _can't..._ " 

He hung up the phone and threw it away from him. He tried to control his shaking fist, tucking it into his chest. 

"You didn't tell her," came Sherlock's deep baritone. 

"I don't even know what to say," John answered, feeling defeated. "What did _you_ tell her?" 

"That you're in a rehabilitation centre, and part of your recovery is to be cut off from outside influences," Sherlock informed calmly. 

"What did you tell her I was in for?" John asked, resignation clawing at his darker emotions. 

"I never specified," his captor answered, "and she never asked." 

"Harry hasn't called. Neither has my father." They weren't questions, and Sherlock didn't answer. 

Instead, he crossed to the abused mobile and picked it up. He offered it to the lost John, but when the doctor didn't move to take it, slender fingers tucked the phone back into the jacket pocket. 

"John...are you going to be alright?" Sherlock asked, folding his absurdly long limbs into crouch down beside the shaking doctor. 

"Why didn't you tell me she was calling?" John asked, staring at his hands. 

"I thought the information would lessen the probability of you staying here," Sherlock answered, his voice taking on its flat factual tone, "part of your acceptance seems to be the loneliness you felt in your former lifestyle." 

"So why let me know now?" John asked, confused. 

"For various reasons, your comfort and happiness is important," the brunet answered, still unnervingly monotonous. 

John turned to look at him, his own delirious voice giggling in his ear: _you **care** about me!_

"But you didn't _tell her,_ " Sherlock stated, a hint of surprise curling into his voice. 

John could have stated his reasons. He could have said that he didn't want to worry Clara, who really should have no loyalty left to him after Harry's bitter walking out. He could have admitted that he didn't want to cause Sherlock any trouble. But he definitely couldn't admit that a _tiny_ part of him wasn't ready to leave. 

Instead of anything else, he gave Sherlock a shaky smile, "You would've just told her I was crazy anyway." 

Sherlock stared at him for quite some time, before he stood abruptly. "Come on, John – I have a gift for you." 

... 

Mycroft Holmes had been wary of his brother's interest in Doctor John Watson since he first figured that it could be detrimental to all of his work. His concerns were not unfounded and in fact, judging by the footage he was watching, were coming true at this precise moment. 

It had been difficult, he remembered, to rear his younger brother into the perfect model of agent. 

Some of his methods could be disapproved, of course, but the ends always justified the means. 

But for this invalid to come in and ruin all of his work. He twisted the handle of his umbrella angrily, the polished shine of the concealed blade flashing in the light of the surveillance screen. His brother was watching the doctor with _affection_ in his gaze! The face that should have been impassive through everything was warm as he led the growingly awe-filled doctor out of the Grounding Suite and through the manor. _His manor!_

This would not do. 

He sat back in his chair, gazing at the screen as he texted Hephaestia to demand her presence. The doctor's focus was caught between taking in all the new stimuli and following his brother to their final destination. 

Sherlock was watching, his face set in contentment as they surprised Mrs Hudson out of her housekeeper embraced John like a long-missed family member, and Sherlock _smiled_. Mycroft growled and slammed the lid of the laptop closed, glaring at the door as he waited for his assistant to enter. 

He had been tempted to remove Mrs Hudson and her unnecessary relationship with Sherlock from the equation many years ago. His near-perfect sociopathic creation within his brother had always been marred by the _feelings_ he had for Mrs Hudson, but Mycroft had allowed it in hopes that Sherlock would not seek the human connection elsewhere. 

It apparently had not been enough as evidenced by the doctor and his new relationship. 

Hephaestia entered, eyes locked on her blackberry, "you wanted me, sir?" 

"Clear my schedule for tomorrow. Something has come up." 

... 

Over the past few nights, the early morning sexual encounters had become...something more. Sherlock had begun caressing other areas of his bare skin while he worked his cock into climax. The extra stimulation was arousing and _so personal..._ And the brunet watched him sometimes, with intensity in his gaze that John refused to allow himself to analyse. 

That night was different again. Sherlock was wrapped around him, the sinfully smooth fabrics of the brunet's expensive shirts delicious against his feverish skin and a hand rubbed at his nipples and stroked a tantalizing line down his torso. 

Ice-blue eyes watched him from within the flawless features of Sherlock's face, set in something he slowly recognised as contentment. "Did you enjoy yourself today, John?" Sherlock asked as a hand slowly pumped up and down his reaction. 

He could only moan out a yes, and cried out in dismay as Sherlock removed his hand and rose up to straddle over John's legs. 

"I've read," Sherlock began carefully, "that oral stimulation is more pleasurable than that of a hand. Is this true, John?" 

John nodded, panting as he tried to catch up with what was going on. 

"Then, would you allow me to...?" The brunet prompted. 

"Oh, _god_ , yes!" John cried out. 

Sherlock slithered down the length of John's body, coming head-to-head with John's aching cock. He licked it with that silver tongue and John couldn't help the moan that tore from his throat. He dropped his head down to the pillow as wet heat enveloped him, the agile tongue tracing tantalizing patterns along the sensitive veins. 

Sherlock's unexpected hum sent an extra shock down his spine and he lifted his head once more to look down at his captor to take in the sight. Sherlock slowly raised his eyes, contentment shining from the blue as another hum sounded. 

John came with a cry of Sherlock's name, falling bonelessly into the mattress as he felt Sherlock swallow around too-sensitive flesh. The brunet crawled back up the bed and laid himself out beside the doctor, a quizzical on his face. 

"It doesn't taste much like blood," he commented. 

"Oh, shush you," John mumbled, a hand seeking out Sherlock's still-hard flesh inside the tailored trousers, "It was a nice moment until then." 

Sherlock came quickly with a low grunt caught deep in his throat. The doctor's grip grew slick with the brunet's emission, and John calculated how long it would take for Sherlock to come down from his version of a post-orgasmic high and leave. Sherlock heaved a deep breath and reached over to pull open the drawer of her bedside table. He pulled out a tissue from the box and cleaned the mess from John's calloused hands and fingers. 

The doctor frowned in confusion, and watched as the brunet screwed up the tissue and tossed it into the waste-paper bin on the other side of the table. "I'm feeling unusually lethargic tonight," the deep baritone said. Sherlock wrapped his arms around the surprised doctor, and before long he was snoring softly. 

... 

"Well isn't this cute," a distasteful voice cut through Sherlock's slumber. He woke up instantly, eyes seeking out Mycroft, perched on the chair across the dining table. He sat up abruptly, violently dislodging the sleeping doctor and waking him up. 

"What? What is going on?" John asked, hand groping for something beneath the pillow. 

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft drawled icily, "there is no gun under your pillow. Nor one in your old apartment, by the way – I had that recovered by the London police force yesterday." 

"Who are you?" John demanded icily, glaring suspiciously at the unfamiliar figure. 

"This is my brother," Sherlock hissed hatefully, "Mycroft Holmes." 

"No need for boring introductions, Sherlock," the elder Holmes barked coldly, "I know everything about Doctor John Watson." 

"And the less anyone knows about you, the better," Sherlock sneered. A hand clutched around John's torso possessively. "What are you doing here?" He demanded suspiciously, glaring at his older brother. 

"This is my house," Mycroft remarked coldly, "I don't need a reason to enter my own home." 

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled, "what do you want?" 

"Your co-operation," Mycroft replied, "you've been neglecting your job, Sherlock. There are cases waiting for you, and Jim is without his partner." He twisted his umbrella, and Sherlock saw the telltale flash of steel from the concealed blade. "I'm sure John can be _taken care of_." 

"Sherlock?" John asked, putting a hand on the brunet's arm as he hid behind the slender, shirt-clad torso. "Sherlock what's happening?" 

"Get out," Sherlock growled. He shoved John away from him and stood, towering above the seated man. 

"No need to over-react, Sherlock," the elder Holmes commented. "It's not like you have formed a _relationship_ with Doctor Watson." His voice curled in distaste over the world 'relationship', much like Sherlock knew his own used to. The implication sent a shiver of fury down his spine, and his fists clenched. Mycroft gave him a pleasant smile, and Sherlock scowled in fury. 

"Get out," the brunet hissed through clenched teeth. 

"Are you attempting to eject me from my own home, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, his face still unwaveringly pleasant. His hand twisted on the umbrella again, and even John's eyes sought out the flash of light from his position half-akimbo on the bed. 

"Sherlock?"The doctor asked, his voice strangled. 

"Stop it," Sherlock said, taking a step forward. "You're scaring John." 

"Why am I scaring him, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, a smile on his face, "I'm being nothing but pleasant. You, however, are acting irrationally hostile." 

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled. 

The elder Holmes' smile fell, leaving an angry sneer on his face. "Don't tell me you've grown _attached,_ Sherlock," he said mockingly, "I don't want to have to get rid of him like I did that stray puppy you once found..." 

No memories surfaced in Sherlock's mind, only vicious fury. He leapt at his brother, pushing him off the chair. The government official huffed as the breath left him at the impact. The younger Holmes hissed as he felt a sharp line of pain slice up the top of his forearm. He slammed his brother's head down on the polished floorboards. 

Mycroft yelled in fury and pain, tugging the cover properly off his blade and stabbing it towards his brother. Sherlock rolled away before the steel could cut into his flesh and cause serious damage. It sliced through his shoulder, but only the first layer of skin. His brother's amateur grip was broken by the slickness of blood. Sherlock tossed the umbrella away from him and slammed Mycroft's head back on the floorboards. 

With a cry, Mycroft used his heavier weight to flip them. Dazed, he tried to copy his brother's attack, only to be prevented when Sherlock bit the hand that gripped his skull. The elder brother cried out in pain, and jerked backwards. 

Sherlock stared in shock as a silver tip protruded from the thin white shirt of Mycroft's suit. Blood began pooling from the wound and Sherlock looked beyond his brother's torso to see John standing above them, the false umbrella clutched in his hands. Wide eyed, he watched as John yanked the blade out again and Sherlock pushed him away. The official's head smacked against the leg of the dining room, and he slumped, unconscious. 

"You attacked him," the agent whispered, awed. 

"He was hurting you," John replied, calm – as if it was simple reasoning. He knelt down and pressed his hands to either side of the wound. "It's not a fatal wound, so long as we stop the blood flow." 

"We'd best not let him die," the agent agreed, "who knows what would happen to the country." 

John frowned at him in confusion, "What do you mean?" 

Sherlock smiled, "Never mind. Nothing you need to bother yourself with." 

"Help me lift him," John commanded, "there's a better medical kit in the bedroom suite down the hall." He hefted the unconscious Holmes upright, and Sherlock helped him to carry the dead weight over his good shoulder. 

The fading adrenaline left the agent in an introspective lassitude, watching as the ex-army doctor sutured and bandaged his brother's wound. His mind skipped over the probable events of the next few days, and he swallowed the dryness in his throat. As soon as the government official was patched up, he gripped John's arm. 

The doctor turned to him with a serious frown. "What is it, Sherlock?" He asked. 

"Come with me," he requested, his voice sounding strangely muted and echoed through the fading adrenaline. John glanced over the bandaging, and followed Sherlock out of the room. He strode through the familiar hallways. 

He felt a hand on his arm, and turned to see John looking up at him in concern. "Where are we going, Sherlock?" He asked. 

"Mycroft won't let this just go," the agent explained, taking the John's arm and pulling him along, "he'll want vengeance. I have to keep you safe." 

"Sherlock? What's going on?" He demanded again. 

Sherlock ignored him. Pushing the front doors open, he walked John out and stood at the top of the marble stairs. It was raining, and he felt the wind blow water into his face. 

"You have to leave," Sherlock said reluctantly. "I can give you cash," he said, walking John down the stairs into the rain, "but you need to leave the country. There's nowhere I can hide you in the country that Mycroft can't find you." 

"You want me to leave?" John asked. His breath began to ran short, and Sherlock recognised the signs of panic in the doctor. "Why can't you keep me here?" 

He felt an overwhelming wave of tiredness and sunk onto the steps with shaking limbs. "I could," he admitted, seeing the possibility unravel before him. "I could make an arrangement, convince Mycroft to leave you alone in exchange for me going back to work for him." 

John was crying quietly, and Sherlock knew without a doubt that if John chose to stay, he could never let the doctor go. He told him as much, and the doctor whimpered, staying silent and shaking in the rain. 

He knew John was considering it. Trying to argue with his own Stockholm Syndrome to convince himself to leave. 

"You should," Sherlock said weakly, unsure whether he was telling John to stay or go. He fingered the hole in his shirt, gingerly touching the cut on his forearm. 

"I don't know if I can," the doctor said, and his voice was thick – he was distressed, and if Sherlock deduced it properly, in tears. John shivered, and Sherlock guessed it was a mix of the rain and his emotional turmoil. 

"You can't stand here forever," Sherlock reminded him. Whether they liked it or not, John had to make a choice – to stay or leave. Sherlock would protect him to the best of his ability whatever path he chose, but John had to decide. 

"You can't do this, Sherlock," John's voice cut through the agent's train of thought, "you can't make this my decision." 

"I have to," Sherlock admitted. He couldn't choose for John. 

John sobbed, wrapping himself up in his arms. "Will you love me?" The question was so quiet, Sherlock could barely hear the words. 

But he did, and he flinched. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. "You know I can't promise you that, John." He didn't even know if he was capable of love, let alone feeling it for this doctor he had just met. He reached out a hand to touch the doctor's shoulder, but dropped the hand back to his side. 

The doctor sobbed and his head dropped onto his chest. "I'll stay," he whispered. Sobbing, his knees buckled and he sunk to the marble footpath. "I have to stay." 


End file.
